


Рођена из пламена

by thesignsofserbia



Series: A Study in Nightmares [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV Multiple, Paternal Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sally Donovan Appreciation, Sickfic, Stand Alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of terrible things in the world, but this? No one deserves this.</p><p>Sherlock returns to London wounded, and not completely whole. After everything falls apart, Donovan and Lestrade are the ones left to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Рођена из пламена

**Author's Note:**

> Рођена из пламена, is Serbian. Roughly translated, it means 'Born From the Flames'.
> 
> This is one of my longer ones, but I've always wanted to write Sgt. Donovan, and explore her someone turbulent relationship with Sherlock. I'm also fascinated by the concept of two people bonding after a shared traumatic event, though I've only touched a bit on that here.

 

 

“Sherlock?!” Lestrade squints through the rain, “Is that you?”

 

As he gets closer, hurrying out into the downpour he’d been hoping to avoid, it becomes painfully clear that the bedraggled man slumped against the next building is indeed Sherlock Holmes.

 

He’s just sitting there in the gutter of the laneway, in the grit and the muck; elbows on knees, head hanging down.

 

He’s not five feet away from the dry foyer of Greg’s building, but he hasn’t let himself in out of the rain like any sane person would. It’s like he’s punishing himself for something.

 

It’s absolutely hammering down, it’s a miracle that Greg even spotted him. He struggles to blink the water out of his eyes as he leans down to put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

 

He can already feel the back of his trousers being plastered against his calves with the force of the driving rain. The water pooling in his shoes, making him distinctly uncomfortable; and he’s not the one sitting in a puddle.

 

The wind is picking up, and they’re going to catch their death of cold if they don’t get inside soon.

 

Sherlock gives no indication whatsoever that he’s even registering the rain. Greg hopes to god that he hasn’t been here long. He realises with a sinking feeling that the man isn’t even wearing his coat.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

 

Sherlock looks up at him plaintively, with a blank indifference that chills him to the bone. It allows Greg to see the trickles of blood mingling with the rain that are running down his throat. He receives the barest of shrugs in lieu of explanation, but he doesn’t like the far away quality to Sherlock’s eyes.

 

Greg knows that look; it means that Sherlock is trying to steel himself, to manage something, to push it down.

 

He’s come here specifically, and Sherlock only turns to him as a last resort, when all else has failed him, and he can no longer ignore that he needs help.

 

Greg is Sherlock’s guide rope when he cannot remain impartial, when he acknowledges that his own steadfast logic has failed him to the point where he feels he can’t trust his own judgement, when Greg’s steady reliability is the next best thing.

 

This is his refuge in his darkest times, when he’s hit rock bottom. Greg doesn’t mind that he’s a last resort, because the fact that Sherlock _will_ turn to him in an emergency means that he trusts the DI to protect him from himself.

 

It’s almost an honour.

 

This is the place where Sherlock swallows his pride and admits that he cannot do this alone, whatever ‘this’ may happen to be.

 

The last time it was the drug addiction that finally drove him here, and for a moment that fear grips him; has he relapsed? But he quickly dismisses the idea, he’s well-seasoned in the art of spotting a drug user, and he knows all of Sherlock’s tells.

 

He’s clean, and somehow miraculously alive.

 

He’d actually seen him less than twelve hours ago, in the basement carpark at Scotland Yard. He still wasn’t sure how to feel about Sherlock Holmes coming back from the dead. But he was glad to have him back.

 

How had Sherlock managed to go from triumphant; cheating death, to sitting on his arse, soaked to the skin, in a Brixton alleyway in less than a day?

 

Greg sucked in a deep breath; “You’d better come in then.”

 

It becomes alarmingly clear as soon as they enter the flat that the situation is far worse than he’d realised.

 

Something is terribly wrong with Sherlock Holmes.

 

He may have been able to fool Greg in a darkened parking garage, distracting him with an impossible resurrection (that left him questioning if he hadn’t just witnessed the second coming of Christ), but there was nothing left to hide behind now.

 

Because Sherlock may not actually _be_ a corpse, but he certainly looks the part.

 

He was just sort of lingering in the middle of Greg’s living room, dripping all over the carpet. It gave the distinct impression that he was powered down into sleep mode; conserving precious energy.

 

To avoid making eye contact, he had acquired a riveted fascination with Greg’s beaten up skirting board. There was blood on the carpet.

 

“You need a shower and fresh clothes or you’re going to give yourself pneumonia on top of…whatever else you’ve got going on. I reckon I can find something that will fit you.”

 

He didn’t add that he actually still had some of the clothes Sherlock had left here nearly five years ago; he’d never been able to bring himself to throw them out. Judging how emaciated he looked, they’d probably still fit him.

 

“I’ll make up the guest room; towels are in the linen closet down the hall, bathroom’s second door on your left.”

 

Sherlock nodded mechanically, making his way stiffly across the room. He didn’t even comment on the fact that he almost certainly remembered the layout of the place without having to be told.

 

He looked so frail Lestrade was almost worried he wouldn’t make it. He hoped the man had at least enough common sense to sit down in the tub.

 

A hoarse thank you wafted its way in Greg’s general direction, followed by the soft click of the door.

 

When he comes in later, Sherlock hasn’t showered, but he has changed into something warmer, and is huddled under his thickest duvet.

 

“Alright, I’m sorry, but before you go to sleep, I need a list of where you’re hurting, yeah?”

 

He needed to assure himself that Sherlock wasn’t going to die in his sleep from some terrible injury he didn’t know about.

 

How was that going to look, stumbling upon a dead man in his flat? Him being a senior police officer and all. The identity of said dead man made it even worse. He had no idea what he’d do in that situation; bury the body? He didn’t want to think about it.

 

No, he wasn’t going to be satisfied until he had that list.

 

“Like with Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbles.

 

“Yeah, exactly like that. Are you gonna tell me?”

 

The blankets shift as he shakes his head.

 

“I’ll write it down.”

 

“Okay, that works, I’ll get you a pen.”

 

The man doesn’t want to talk and he’ll respect that for now, at least until he’s feeling better, he’d never push him away in his hour of need.

 

The list is devastating.

 

_Three broken fingers, right hand. Right humerus; complex open fracture, satisfactorily reset. Multiple rib injuries, estimated five broken, two cracked._

_Left shoulder dislocated, not properly set. Fractured left clavicle, sprained ankle, undetermined number of cracked metatarsals, and extensive soft tissue damage to the soles of both feet._

_Severe trauma to liver and right kidney._

_Broken nose, three missing teeth, and partial hearing impairment to right ear. Widespread bruising, electrical/chemical burns, and severe lacerations._

 

And those were just his immediate problems.

 

“Oh Sherlock, what have you done?”

 

~

 

With an undignified moan, Greg manages to drag himself from the sofa to the front door; he feels like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He has to be getting too old for such melodrama.

 

“Sir,” He’s greeted by an awkward Sergeant Donovan, lingering apologetically on his doorstep.

 

“I’m sorry, I heard you were taking some personal time, but well, it’s a mess down at The Yard, and paperwork has been piling up. There’s a bunch of things I need you to sign.”

 

He groans, but wordlessly swings the door open to let her in.

 

She settles hesitantly, spreading out reams of neglected papers onto his coffee table. This is clearly going to take a while; the joys of making Detective Inspector.

 

“I hate to bother you at home but…” Sally is clearly curious about his unannounced ‘holiday,’ but knows it’s not her place to ask.

 

“It’s alright, I get it. It was short notice and I’m sorry for leaving you in the lurch, I just…I needed some time.”

 

It’s not an explanation, he doesn’t know if he has one he can give her, he’d meant for it to calm her concern, but he’s a terrible liar, and now he’s made it sound even worse. Christ, she probably thinks he’s dying or something.

 

Admittedly, it was his own fault; he hadn’t given them any kind of warning, just phoned up out of the blue to say he wasn’t coming in, which is not like him, he practically lived in his office.

 

It’s a discrepancy, and suspiciously out of character, but he hadn’t the time to worry about what anyone might think. Sherlock would have mocked him for his lack of foresight.

 

But Sherlock had needed him, it was an emergency, and it wasn’t like he could tell them what was really going on, not without substantial risk to Sherlock.

 

He knew Donovan was more than capable of stepping up; maybe this would even be her chance to prove herself as DI material. She was a competent officer, good at her job, someone he could rely on to take the slack in a crisis. He knew she wouldn’t let him down.

 

“Sir…” Her voice was thick with concern, and he hated to worry her.

 

“I’m fine, really I am,” he promises her, “I know I should have called to let you know I was okay. Something’s come up and it’s a bit hectic right now, but I know you can handle it.”

 

She frowned.

 

“Well don’t blame me if I don’t believe it, because frankly Sir? You look like shit.”

 

He probably does look a sight, he’d been up night worrying about Sherlock and hadn’t had time for a shave; his clothes are rumpled from having slept in them, and there’s an air of desperation that he cannot hide.

 

He’s living on too much coffee and not enough sleep.

 

He guiltily realises that the flat doesn’t look much better; dirty dishes in the sink, and Chinese takeaway cartons littered across every surface. But he can’t really blame that part on his unexpected visitor.

 

When had he become the stereotypically put-upon cop; stressed, overworked, and perpetually confused?

 

He scrawls his signature across the last of the forms, barely giving them a cursory glance; he could be signing over his assets for all he knew.

 

At this point though, he didn’t really care, he was too distracted, it was about time he checked on Sherlock.

 

Donovan suddenly goes rigid, and he’s about to ask her what’s wrong when he hears it too; there’s a low moaning sound coming from the spare bedroom.

 

He closes his eyes. Damn it; he’s caught.

 

He’s praying that she will just ignore it when it happens again, louder this time; someone clearly in pain.

 

“Shit.”

 

Sally turns to stare at him, perplexed.

 

“Sir? Is there someone else here?”

 

Sherlock is still making horrible noises, and Greg curses his timing. He looks at her pleadingly, how the hell is he going to explain this?

 

“Sally…”

 

But she’s still staring at him, alert and leaning instinctively towards the sound of distress.

 

Sherlock starts calling out louder, and Greg can’t sit there any longer, he shoots her a somewhat guilty look of apology before outright bolting from his chair.

 

He’s halfway down the hall when the screaming begins, and he can hear the loud clack of her heels as she gives chase, racing to his aide.

 

There’s no time to address her questions, he turns his attention to the bed where Sherlock is whimpering and thrashing, tying himself in knots in his agony and desperation.

 

He has a dim hope that maybe Donovan won’t recognise him with all the hair; maybe he can still avoid the inevitable confrontation.

 

“Shhh, wake up; it’s okay, you’re okay.”

 

Sally stands stock still in the doorway, watching his ineffective attempts to soothe Sherlock, taking in the impossibility of the scene before her.

 

There’s a sharp intake of breath where he can practically hear her moment of realisation.

 

“It can’t be.” She whispers in disbelief.

 

“Not now Donovan.” It comes out harsher than he’d intended, but if she’s not going to help him, the least she can do is shut up and stay out of his way.

 

He’s quieted some, but is still obviously in pain.

 

Greg knows what this must look like, and it’s not good; the man clearly needs to be in a hospital, and he doesn’t know what to tell her because he has no explanation for how he’s even alive. Greg tries to subtly inspect the man’s back to take stock of the damage, but Sherlock moans loudly in protest, straining to get away from his hands. He’s no good at this.

 

“Nononono, stop” Sherlock begs, “No more, _please_ ; no more.”

 

It’s hard to watch, but it’s even worse to hear that voice; so totally distraught and barely recognisable.

 

He hears Sally swear under her breath as her suspicions are undeniably confirmed. Caution be damned he addresses him by name.

 

“It’s alright Sherlock, I need you to wake up for me now, can you do that?” He tries to keep his voice as even as possible, even as his heart is racing.

 

Sherlock rouses blearily; still not quite with them.

 

“That’s it mate; relax. It was just a dream.”

 

He settles Sherlock back into a restless, exhausted sleep, before finally rising to face Donovan.

 

She stares at him; horrified, confused, and a little betrayed. He gestures silently for her to follow before trudging his way back into the sitting room.

 

Slumping heavily, he eyes the cold tea before him, and fervently wishes it were something stronger. Where to begin? How is he going to dig himself out of this hole?

 

As soon as they are both safely out of hearing range, Sally rounds on him; furious.

 

“Sir, what the _hell_ is this?”

 

He closes his eyes for a moment and wonders what exactly he’s done to make the universe hate him so much.

 

“It’s not what it looks like,” he protests weakly, wanting nothing more than to start this day over from scratch.

 

“Really?! Because it looks to me like you’re secretly harbouring a man who for all intents and purposes shouldn’t even be alive, someone who _I_ believed to have jumped to his death two years ago!”

 

“Okay, Okay,” he mumbles, burying his face in his hands, “So maybe it’s exactly like that.”

 

“Did you know?” she accuses fiercely.

 

“Did you know he was alive, all this time? How could you keep this a secret, from _me_? You, of all people? I held myself responsible, and you let me; you never said a word.”

 

She shakes her head bitterly at him, like she doesn’t even recognise him.

 

“It’s not like that okay? I swear. I only found out myself yesterday, and then it all went downhill from there. He shows up on my doorstep, beaten to a pulp, he had nowhere else to go. What was I supposed to do?”

 

Her shoulders relax, and she knows he’s telling the truth. He stares at the floor helplessly as the cushions next to him dip softly under her weight.

 

“This is fucked up.”

 

He chuckles dryly.

 

“Don’t I know it,” He sighs, and turns to her, deadly serious; “Someone has really done a number on him this time Sally. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything this…barbaric.”

 

God it’s good to have someone he can share his secret with, the stress of being Sherlock’s sole protector had been eating at him, what if the man died? What was he supposed to do? Who should he call?

 

Donovan is stricken by this, and she swallows loudly.

 

For all their differences, he knows that when it came down to it, Sherlock was one of their own. Cops have to look out for one another, they dread hearing the words ‘officer down,’ because it could be them, it could be any of them, and Sally is a good cop.

 

As much as she may not like Sherlock, she respects his work, she is fiercely protecting of her colleagues. She has worked very closely with Sherlock for years, and it’s impossible to do that with a person without developing _some_ sort of camaraderie, even if you hate their guts.

 

He knows Sherlock feels _something_ for her, even if it’s just irritated tolerance.

 

People don’t like change, and Sherlock takes everything to extremes; he doesn’t like working with people he doesn’t know, even if it means he has to put up with Anderson. He prefers consistency, having the same faces around, he wouldn’t admit it, but it’s very human.

 

Donovan is tough and uncompromising, invaluable skills for a policewoman, and she’s had to face more obstacles than many to get where she is. Being a black woman in a predominantly male profession takes guts, and Greg knows she’ll go far.

 

Donovan is hard, but compassionate; he knows that she cares about Sherlock in her own way.

 

She’d taken his death harder than most.

 

“What _happened_ to him?” She whispers conspiratorially, with a quick glance towards Sherlock’s room.

 

“I don’t know everything, he wasn’t really in a fit state to give me the full run down, but I can tell you that it’s bad. There are injuries…scars, things I can’t ignore.”

 

“He was tortured?” She asks quietly, she always was quick to put the pieces together.

 

He passes her the list.

 

Sally looks extremely uneasy now, knowing what they’d done to him, this was not something either of them were fully equipped to deal with.

 

“Yeah,” he mutters, “And recently too by the looks of it. I did my best, but I’m no doctor.”

 

He’d done a quick inspection, and almost threw up when he saw them, infected and raw, those horrible wounds had no place on Sherlock’s skin; it made him so sad to see them there. He couldn’t even imagine the pain the man must be in.

 

“Whatever he’s been doing…I mean it was hard on us, but it’s been a hell of a lot harder on him.”

 

“What do we do now?” She looks to him anxiously, and he almost smiles when she immediately includes herself in that equation.

 

Sally Donovan isn’t one to run when the going gets tough. It’s why he hired her, why he insisted that he had to have her on his team.

 

She’s loyal to a fault, and it’s good to know that he’s not alone on this, that someone is there to share the pressure, because nothing about this situation is good.

 

What they’re doing, in hiding Sherlock, probably breaks a dozen laws, but she’s willing to stick her neck out with him, and for that he will be eternally grateful.

 

“Honestly? I haven’t the first clue how to help him, but he needs us, and we owe him enough to try.”

 

Sally nods with conviction.

 

“Well we obviously can take him to hospital, but I think we can agree that he needs medical attention.”

 

Her eyes light up.

 

“What about Watson; he’s a doctor? Actually, where the hell is he? I’d expect him to be here, seeing as they were practically joined at the hip.”

 

Greg looks down and shakes his head.

 

“Yeah, only…it turns out he didn’t tell _him_ either.”

 

“Wait so..?”

 

“He was as much in the dark as we were,” Greg confirms gravely, John hadn’t known any of it; Sherlock had put him through hell.

 

“Shit.”

 

“I know, believe me. It really messed him up, he broke Sherlock’s nose apparently.”

 

“Good for him.”

 

He grunts his assent, but she doesn’t really mean it; neither of them do. John has every right to be angry, but it doesn’t _seem_ right, hitting Sherlock when he’s already so fragile.

 

He wonders if John knows just how bad he is, and concludes that he probably doesn’t, he never would have hit him if he did…would he?

 

“I mean, he’s always been an arse but… God, how could he do that? To his best friend? He made him _watch_.”

 

“He wouldn’t have done it without a reason.” It’s the truth, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

“It’s pretty heartless though; even for him.”

 

“Yes. It is.” God he can barely keep his eyes open.

 

“D’you want coffee? I’m going to make some,” Greg asks, rising slowly.

 

But he staggers, throwing himself off balance, grabbing Sally’s shoulder and only narrowly avoiding falling flat on his face like a right tit.

 

“Sir, you need to rest before you hurt yourself.”

 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, but her face is firmly set.

 

“You’re no good to him like this, and you know it.”

 

“But he’s…” Greg waves a hand weakly in the direction of the hall.

 

“I’ll keep an eye on him for a bit.”

 

Greg looks at her doubtfully, “You sure?” It was going a bit beyond the call of duty, babysitting a man she’d once loathed.

 

She looks vaguely offended, raising her eyebrows.

 

“Of course I’m sure, I can’t just _leave_ him; I’m not _that_ cold. What he’s been through…nobody deserves this.”

 

Her face is deadly serious, and he’s a little thrown by the depth of sadness in her eyes. She cares a lot more than he’d given her credit for, and he feels like a shit for doubting her.

 

“I know, you’re right, I’m sorry. I just…” He’s so tired he can’t even finish his sentences.

 

“You’re scared for him I know, I am too,” She admits, “But you’re dead on your feet, and pushing yourself to the brink of collapse isn’t going to help anyone.”

 

He can see that she’s not going to budge on this, she’s stubborn, but she’s also right, he needs to sleep.

 

“You’re a saint, you really are. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for getting you into this, you should never have been asked to do this.”

 

“I know I am,” Donovan quirks a smile, “And you didn’t ask; I’m volunteering. Doesn’t mean I’m doing out of charity; no one else at the Yard can find their arse with both hands, we need you back. Now go to bed, that’s an order.”

 

“Cheeky.”

 

Greg grumbles at her teasing, but does as he’s told.

 

He doesn’t even bother to undress, just collapses fully clothed on top of his rumpled sheets, groaning in relief. With Sally manning the fort, he falls asleep in seconds.

 

~

 

_He’s running barefoot through the forest. Everywhere there is noise; dogs barking, men shouting, the thunderous beats of the helicopter overhead._

_His heart is pounding loudest of all, and the beats fill his ears with their strained rhythm. His breathing is thick and ragged, puffing out as a fog in the biting cold air._

_The terrain is dark and treacherous; there are massive trees all around him, obscuring his vision. The ground is unfamiliar and uneven; it’s all he can do to concentrate, willing himself not to trip on a root or log._

_If he trips he’s dead._

_He’s not going to make it, doesn’t even know where he’s going, which direction his feet are carrying him, but he knows he has to run. Everything depends on it._

_His muscles burn with the effort, aerobic and anaerobic respiration together still not providing the oxygen needed to sustain him._

_The soles of his feet slip on the muddy ground as he sprints for his life, dodging the trees that jump out at him from the blackness, hurdling blindly over anything in his path._

_He has to get out, must make it to safety, but he doesn’t think he knows where that is anymore. It's a long way from here.  
_

_He has lost all of his bearings after being chained for weeks in his cell. He is in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest town, and utterly alone._

_It’s hopeless, he’s too slow; he knows he can’t out run the dogs on his heels, baying and snarling for his blood. But he cannot stop._

_Maybe they’ll just shoot him, gun him down in their apathy and save everyone the trouble. He almost hopes they will._

_Or they could just leave him to the dogs, let them tear off his flesh, rip him limb for limb, hungry for it._

_He’s afraid, so very afraid. He runs through the pain, broken arm flailing behind him as a dead weight._

_They’re gaining ground, and he has to go **faster** , can hear the crunching tread of boots, the pattering of paws; cutting him off, closing the distance._

_The adrenaline and terror spur him on, but he’s still not quick enough, he can feel himself starting to lag._

_He’s being hunted like an animal, for them it’s sport, the thrill of the chase, the promise of a fresh kill; catch the fox and skin it alive._

_There was a time when he could outrun anything, when it was all just a game. He used to be the hunter, but now he’s nothing more than the terrified prey, a rabbit to be shot and eaten._

_He’s never known such fear from a chase._

_Lights are flashing, the shouting growing closer, voices more distinct. He’s running purely by instinct, every cell quivering with the anticipation of capture._

_He needs to keep going, but he can’t. He can't sustain this for much longer, he's running out of time. His muscles are seizing in protest, chest heaving with exertion, he can feel his body betraying him; giving up._

_This isn’t fun, this isn’t thrilling. He’s a rat trapped in a maze, running in circles. He isn’t laughing anymore._

_They’re going to lock him up, cage him between four impenetrable walls, and then they’re going to work him again, punish him for escaping. He'll be trapped and enclosed, stifled and defeated. They’ll drown him, shock him, slice him into little pieces, cut into his skin until he begs them to let him die._

_He can’t go back to that, he won't survive another round, they'll break him._

 

_He’s not going to have a choice. They’re never going to stop, they’re really going to kill him this time, and the thought still petrifies him, even now._

_His only way out is to die, but he’s not ready, he’s not **finished** yet! He wants his life; he wants his life so badly. It’s all he has left, and he’ll fight for it, he’ll fight to return, he’ll fight for John._

_He’s still going to lose._

_Machine gun fire rips through the air in front of him, and he realises too late that it’s over. He is forced to his knees in the rain and the mud, defeated and conquered. He cannot go on._

_It’s a dead end; he’s run straight into an ambush. This is it. Game over._

_They close in on him, shouting, ugly and foreign. He takes a boot to the stomach, and another, and another._

_His chest heaves, crying and wheezing in desperation. No more, please; no more._

_He doesn’t want to die, but it would be better if they just put him down there and then, where he can still see the sky, because he knows there’s worse to come. He doesn't want to die in a concrete box, broken and afraid.  
_

_He’s soaked to the skin and covered in mud; bare chested and freezing. He can barely breathe through the burn in his lungs.  
_

_Killing him would be a kindness, so of course they don’t._

_They beat him senseless; hold his face down in the thick mud until it fills his mouth, choking him to the point of asphyxiation. It feels thick and repulsive on his tongue, clinging to the back of his teeth. He spits, coughing up huge lumps of it as they haul him up for air. The dogs strain at their leashes, viciously snarling, it will only take a split second, one lapse in concentration from their handlers and they'll be on him._

_He struggles pathetically, fighting and kicking, trying to gain purchase on the thick, slippery ground, but he’s weak, and they laugh, they spit in his face._

_Someone is shaking his shoulder, rough and gentle at the same time, but it’s not any of the faces staring cruelly down at him, smiling and taunting._

_He thinks he hears his name as the rifle butt slams down on his face, and everything goes black._

_~_

 

He wakes; choking and flailing, vision blurred.

 

There’s a large black spot that’s obscuring everything else, and he tries to blink it away, but it refuses to budge, looming over him.

 

His pupils focus sluggishly, and as the room clears he comes to see that it’s a face, framed by a mass of bushy black hair. Is that...?

 

“Donovan?” He slurs in shock, but the sound that comes out is unintelligible, his tongue feels thick and foreign in his mouth.

 

He doesn’t understand where he is, why is she here? He knows it must be real because he’d never imagine this.

 

“Holmes,” She sighs, “You’re awake, thank god.”

 

He wants to say that god has nothing to do with it, he wants to ask her why she’s here, but he can’t speak.

 

She looks frightened, why is she frightened? He sits bolt upright, and sways, searching the room for the threat.

 

She’s at his side instantly, which only confuses him more.

 

“Lie back, you’re bleeding,” she commands, and he surprises them both when he immediately complies.

 

Her brown eyes are pinched at the edges; in concern or disgust, he does not know.

 

“Can you roll onto your side for me? I think you hurt yourself.”

 

He struggles to turn over so much that she has to help him. His mind is constricted, it’s like someone has stuffed his skull full of maggots, writhing and eating his brain, taking up all the available space, making it impossible to think.

 

It’s horrible and he begins to panic, because he's completely helpless, with his back exposed to the world. If something were to happen right now, there's not a thing he could do about it; he's completely at her mercy.

 

His ribcage sears with the weight pressing down on his broken ribs, and the pain sharpens everything.

 

Words begin to trickle in, wading through the deluge of blood pounding in his ears. He realises that Donovan is talking to him, no, not just talking; soothing. He’s suddenly very glad that she is here, his one point of contact, his life ring.

 

She’s doing something to his back and it _hurts_ , he tries to tell her to stop, but he only manages a low wail of protest. What the hell is wrong with him?

 

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but you’re going to have to bear with it, or it’s going to get a lot worse.”

 

He pants, feeling trapped in his inability to communicate.

 

“This is going to hurt a lot okay? I don’t have anything to numb it, but I need to clean and close these wounds before you go septic. Nod if you understand.”

 

She’s being blunt, and he appreciates her honesty, but her voice is tight and pained, and he wonders again what she’s doing here. Nodding, yes, that's something he can do, he needs to let her know he can hear her, that he's still in here.

 

He grits his teeth and nods reluctantly.

 

_Pain; blinding pain._

 

His vision whites out as harsh antiseptic floods tender skin.

 

He’s mumbling randomly, doesn’t know what he’s saying; just snatches of words and phrases. He knows he’s not making any sense, but he's thankful he at least had the presence of mind not to scream.

 

“Stay with me Sherlock,” she says as she sets his skin on fire.

 

An eternity passes, where all he can do is moan and cry through the pain as she literally knits him back together. They slog through it together, and it feels like it will never end, that he is doomed be caught it this moment forever.

 

It’s certainly not his finest moment; he’s a miserable wreck, but he holds himself still and doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t stop and he doesn’t ask her to, he’s suffered worse than this, he can take it. He’s strangely glad it’s her though, even if she is the last person he would have wanted to see him in this state. Lestrade never would have had the balls to go through with this.

 

By the time she’s finished he is limp and trembling, unable to fight, unable to do anything but exist, exist and _burn_.

 

She keeps apologising softly, over and over, holding him through it. She keeps clinging to him even when she’s done, and he doesn't want her to let go. She's the only thing keeping him grounded, if she left he'd surely go insane. It’s like an alternate universe, where everything is inverted.

 

Where is John? He wants John.

 

She purses her lips and won’t look at him when he tries to ask, and he _knows_ ; John’s not coming. John is fine, but he’s still not coming.

 

Donovan sits with him on the bed, and he presses his face despondently into her thigh and tries not to weep. He’s not certain if he succeeds.

 

The world is still burning, and her leg feels cold against his forehead.

 

“Too hot. Burning,” He gasps.

 

He feels her shift in alarm and a cool hand touches his neck, oh god, it’s soft and cool and _not enough_.

 

“Shit, you’re on fire.”

 

He doesn’t have the energy to rebuke her for stating the obvious. He’s been burning from the moment he stepped off that ledge.

 

She’s gone for an indiscernible amount of time, and he forces down the panic, praying that she hasn't abandoned him. And then she’s back, stripping off the blankets and covering him in a shroud of wet and cool. Its heaven and he moans in relief through the towel covering his face.

 

She places icepacks under his arms, and then hesitantly his groin. He doesn’t care; he’s too relieved to be embarrassed. Those sorts of things seem inconsequential under the circumstances. He couldn’t give a flying fuck right now if she saw him naked.

 

The towels heat too quickly, becoming hot, humid and suffocating, but Donovan is always there to make sure they’re replaced.

 

The night drags on; his fever peaking, and looping and spiralling in the room. Colours dance on the ceiling, they're talking to him; voices whispering in his ear but he doesn't understand what they're saying. He wants to press fast forward, he wants this to _end_. He can’t possibly take any more.

 

She tells him it’s okay to sleep, and he wants to disagree, because she’s _wrong_ , it’s not safe there, but his eyes are closing before he can string the words together.

 

~

 

When Greg wakes, and groggily glances at the clock, there’s a disoriented moment where a shard of icy dread pierces him, before it all comes flooding back. He hasn’t overslept, and he doesn’t have to work today.

 

_Breathe in, breathe out. You’re okay._

 

Instead he has a burgeoning headache and a deathly ill man in his spare room. He groans.

 

It’s only when he remembers Donovan that he musters the strength to pour himself out of bed. He hadn’t meant to crash for so long. He’d left her alone to deal with an unco-operative Sherlock for nearly thirteen hours. What could _possibly_ go wrong?

 

The sight that greets him in the other bedroom renders him speechless for a solid minute.

 

Sherlock is curled on his side, wearing only his pants, towels and icepacks scattered forgotten all around him.

 

What’s most surprising is that his head is pillowed on Donovan’s lap, where she dozes on the other side, propped up against a wall of pillows. Her arm is curled protectively around his shoulders, hand resting comfortingly on the disgusting rats-nest that has become Sherlock’s hair.

 

He smiles softly at the innocence of the moment.

 

He’s clearly missed something monumental, some sort of turning point in their relationship. He feels a small stab of guilt for having apparently slept right through what looked like a mini crisis, and once again he thanks whoever is listening that he has the best 2IC on the force.

 

“Sally,” he whispers, careful not to disturb the detective sleeping next to (on?) her.

 

She startles awake, neck snapping up, blinking at him.

 

“What…?” He gestures to the general situation on the bed, trying not to smile.

 

She just shrugs, and ever so gently begins to extract herself from Sherlock’s grip on her skirt, before padding after him in stockinged feet to the kitchenette.

 

“Breakfast?” He suggests.

 

~

 

Greg wakes the next morning to find Sherlock gone from his bed.

 

He searches the whole flat in a panic before he finds him slumped against the bath. He looks awful, and the stench of bile fills the room, but at least he’s alert, and mostly upright.

 

“Shower,” he rasps, “I need to take a shower.”

 

He looks to Greg pleadingly, and it figures that the first thing Sherlock Holmes would do after waking from a coma is worry about personal hygiene; he’s always been fastidious about his appearance.

 

He does have a point though; Greg can smell him from across the room.

 

“Alright, I’ll go get you a fresh towel then hmm?”

 

Sherlock nods mechanically, but he doesn’t move. When Greg comes back, he’s still right where he left him, hasn’t even started to undress.

 

“Aren’t you gonna…?”

 

Sherlock head drops and his ears turn a bit pink.

 

“I think you’re going to have to help me, I can’t seem to get up.” He admits, clearly mortified at the prospect.

 

Greg feels a twinge of sympathy for the poor man, god how did it come to this?

 

“Of course, yeah of course I’ll help you,” he states, as if it were ever a question.

 

It’s not even the first time they’ve done this, though Greg doubts the other man remembers. In the worst moments of his withdrawal, he’d spent a lot of time knelt next to him on the floor of the shower, willing him to keep breathing, to hold on just that little bit longer.

 

It’s awkward, as he stands next to him under the spray in only his pants, trying to support and wash him at the same time. Sherlock can’t reach his back, and Greg’s hesitant to touch it, every time he does he only seems to hurt the man more.

 

They’re nearly done when Sherlock’s legs give out, and Greg has to brace one hand against the wall to stop from going right down with him.

 

Sherlock screams in agony as his back slips against the tight grip of Greg’s arm on his waist, and it’s the most horrible noise he’s ever heard.

 

He lowers them both to the floor, cradling the detective against his chest, giving them both time to recover.

 

“I’m sorry kid, god, I’m so sorry. You’re okay; I’ve got you.”

 

They lie there for nearly an hour until water runs cold and Sherlock moans as he tries to rouse him. Greg starts to plan how he’s going to achieve the impossible task off lugging both of them out of the tub.

 

He decides to tackle the problem one bedraggled detective at a time.

 

He leaves Sherlock sleeping and ducks out for a bit. They are in dire need of groceries and new bandages, plus, if Greg doesn’t go to the bank _now_ and deposit his pay, they’ll shut his electricity off.

 

The wait at the bank seems to take an age, and as he shifts nervously from foot to foot, he curses himself for not having gotten around to setting up internet banking; it certainly would make the whole thing easier.

 

Sherlock is staring out the window when he gets back, glaring out into the constant drizzle that is London. He’s clean shaven, and is sporting an old woollen beanie that Greg assumes is a left over from his rugby days. God, he’s old.

 

It should be ridiculous, but the navy blue kind of suits him.

 

“You cut your hair,” Greg comments in amazement. Sherlock is a vain man, and he’s probably made a right mess of it with Greg’s old rusty scissors, trying to hide it with a hat.

 

“It was a lost cause,” Is the hollow reply, and the emptiness in Sherlock’s voice makes him want to break something.

 

Sherlock turns from the window, allowing him to see more closely. The hair’s not just shorter; it’s _gone_ , leaving absolutely nothing poking out from beneath the hat.

 

Oh god, he’s shaved it off.

 

He sees him later, sitting on the couch without it, and his shorn head looks so wrong, so terrible. He is younger and more innocent without his perfectly styled curls, even that matted mane was better than this.

 

He really looks the part of the victim now, like something out of a prisoner of war camp.

 

Greg hates it, but he doesn’t say anything because that’s not fair. He knows that Sherlock hates it too.

 

He’ll pay for the barber himself when all this is over.

 

~

 

They decide that Lestrade will work from home for a few days, with Donovan acting as liaison to Scotland Yard.

 

The third time she comes around, Sherlock Holmes is lying on the sofa, back turned against the world, with a number three cut all the way around. She’s surprised to see him up and about, but he doesn’t acknowledge her.

 

The case is a difficult one, and the investigation has hit a wall. They have no suspects and three dead homeless women.

 

They work around the detective, pouring over files, shooting out ideas as if he is not there, which feels oddly surreal. They’re getting nowhere.

 

Neither of them has addressed the elephant in the room, but his constant proximity makes him hard to ignore. He’s alive, and he’s _right there_. She keeps shooting him expectant glances, waiting for him to chime in, providing fresh insight, pointing out everything they’ve missed.

 

But he stays silent, doing an excellent job of pretending they’re not there. He doesn’t move a muscle but she still gets the impression that he’s fully aware.

 

He’s always had this presence about him, you can actually _feel_ it; people pay attention when he walks into a room. Something about him just expands, taking up all of the available space, drawing you in; everything just tilts, gravitating towards him.

 

He’s annoying, and absolutely larger than bloody life. He has this this air about him, like he’s this enormous energy source, and he uses it to his advantage, making himself impossible to ignore, no matter how much you want to. He likes to perform, to show off; he always has to be the centre of attention.

 

He’s not participating in any way; no contributions or snappy remarks are forthcoming, but they still look hopefully to him for answers. It’s disconcerting actually, because he usually loves to hear himself speak. She wants him to be back to normal, to get better, because this isn't like him, he's _Sherlock Holmes_ ; he's not supposed to stay down. She wants to scream at him to get up, to shout, to sneer, to do anything except lie there, quietly unassuming.

 

He is a nightmare to work with, and once upon a time she might have even gone so far to say she hated him.

 

But he’s never once let them down. If they bring him in on a case, come hell or high water; he’ll solve it, by any means necessary. Even she can’t deny his genius.

 

He has this essential edge that allows him to make leaps that no one else sees, do things that no one else can; his mind whirring tirelessly to dissect the evidence. He doesn't care if he burns himself out, as long as he solves the puzzle. She envies him his mind, his intellect, his creativity, his lateral thinking. He is truly the best.

 

His focus and work rate are second to none, and despite the fact that nearly everyone hates his guts, she knows that it’s because of him that their department has the highest solve rate in the country, or at least they did.

 

It’s why they listen to him when they want to snap his neck, why Lestrade risked everything in recognising his unique abilities, utilising him. And it had been an enormous _personal_ risk, taking him on; only Lestrade had the balls to do it.

 

But he knew that they needed him, so against all good sense and advice, he took a chance on him, for better or worse.

 

When Sally first met Sherlock Holmes he was a manic ball of energy and vitriol, crashing unauthorised into crime scenes, running circles around the best, spitting out deductions from just one look.

 

She’d seen him arrested more than once for his meddling, but he kept coming back, time and time again, and he was almost _always_ right. He was better than all of them combined, and didn’t he know it.

 

But the DI drew the line when he started showing up to crime scenes high. It took them a while to even realise he was a junkie, that he’d been completely off his face _every time_ ; that’s how good he was at hiding it.

 

She’d felt betrayed by his recklessness, his disregard for human life. They were breaking every protocol; giving him access to crime scenes and sensitive information, allowing him to interrogate suspects…

 

Lestrade hadn’t been very popular as it was, asking his team to put their jobs on the line for some public school egomaniac, but finding out he was a coke addict was the final straw.

 

No one wants a strung out drug user to be the one watching your back.

 

He’d cleaned up his act since then, but it had taken a near fatal overdose, and an unnegotiable ultimatum to get him there.

 

John Watson had helped to change all that, even if she _still_ didn’t understand how anyone could stand to live with him. But he was better, more manageable; he pulled his punches when John was around.

 

No one could tame him like John Watson could; the man was a god send. What he saw in Sherlock she would never know, but somehow he made him a better man.

 

For a while there, Sally even thought he might be _happy_.

But now she didn’t know how Sherlock could ever be happy again. It drove a wrench into her heart to think of what had been done to him.

 

It had been a shock to see him so vulnerable; so _broken_. What she’d experienced with him that night had been so strangely _intimate_ , no one but them could understand the tension of that night, how _horrible_ it had been; lying awake for hours as he sobbed like a child.

 

She imagined that a sort of bond had been formed from their mutual understanding and grief, you hear about that sort of thing, disaster victims banding together because no one else understands.

 

She feels like she understands better now, the reality of it, the effect that torture really has on a person. She doesn’t think she could do it in his place, she’d never have survived, and she doesn’t know why exactly; but her gut tells her that maybe he’d have held _her_ too.

 

She knows him better now than she has any right to, faced with undeniable proof of his humanity. He really did _feel_ , and she will never look at him the same again.

 

That sort of trauma changed a person; it destroyed you, and she didn’t want to see that happen to him. He didn’t deserve it; no one did, especially not Sherlock Holmes, not knowing what she did now.

 

He’d saved them; he’d saved their lives.

 

He’d always come across as so strong, so unbreakable, and it scared her to see him now. She’d never realised how comforting it was to have him there standing next to her, totally composed.

 

You could rely on him to stand tall and remain unfazed when everything was going to shit around you. And you need cops like that, who have a backbone in the face of fear.

 

In an ‘us vs them’ situation, she’d be grateful knowing he had her back. It makes you feel more secure in your own safety, having someone like that, someone of his ability on side. He was the ace up their sleeve, the catapult on the battlefield.

 

The world feels a little less safe now that he has fallen.

 

Without that solidity at her back, she is less confident in the face of danger, the wool is gone from her eyes, leaving her exposed. After all, if this could happen to Sherlock of all people, it could happen to her, to anyone.

 

She hadn’t realised how much she relied on him in the field, how much she drew on his strength. He’d always known what to do, and though she hadn’t liked him, she’d trusted him with her life.

 

If something were to happen to her, she’d want him on the case; because she knew he’d do _anything_. If she were missing then _he’d_ be the one to find her, of that she was certain. If anyone could do it; he could.

 

It wouldn’t matter that it was her, that wouldn’t make any difference to him; it didn’t even matter to her that he didn’t care, because she trusted that he’d get the job done.

 

He got results, and that’s all that mattered in the end. He did everything for selfish reasons, but he’d win, because he just could not bear to be _wrong_.

 

She would do the same for him.

 

~

 

The leather of the sofa is cool against his face, it’s soothing, and it reminds him of the one at home. Of course this one is more rigid, lower quality, less comfortably worn. The cushions are too deep, and the smell is all wrong, but he’s not complaining.

 

He’s so tired, and he doesn’t want to think. He just wants to lie here, despondent, and do nothing at all.

 

Hasn’t he earned that right?

 

He thinks that maybe he has, listening to the rain outside, cascading down the glass, and the sounds of London beyond. He can smell her all around him, the leather, the smog, the rain.

 

It’s so familiar, this particular combination of light and sound is unique; they speak only of England. He latches onto that, blocking out everything else, filling his mind with it, the sounds resonating with his every nerve.

 

His city is singing; it’s welcoming him home.

 

The light filtering through to him has a blueish tinge to it, little shadows of droplets projecting over him, ghosting down his face. It’s a mournful caress, and he feels the irrational desire to cry, to sob with relief.

 

He hasn’t felt this much at peace for two years, but he knows it cannot last.

 

Every time he shuts his eyes they’re there; so many memories…He tries not to think of them, but he can still _feel_ them, deep within his chest; immovable mountains of pain and loss.

 

Lestrade has got the fire going; it’s not a real one like the hearth in 221B, but it’s warm and encompassing. It gives the illusion of safety.

 

They are still talking softly behind him, he doesn’t want to hear the words, but they come to him anyway; filter, delete.

 

He knows there is a case, one they cannot solve. They’re trying to talk it through like he used to, waiting for that electric spark, that moment of pure clarity that will make their blood sing.

 

He’s tired, and his body aches, the thought does not excite him; he wants no part in it.

 

They’ll get desperate eventually, they’re going to try and draw him in. It makes sense; they’ve hit a brick wall, and the solution to all their problems is not three feet away. They _should_ try to maximise their resources, and he’s the biggest one they’ve got.

 

This is his life, his specific area of expertise, he was _made_ for this. He could solve the case in seconds.

 

But he doesn’t want to.

 

Why doesn’t he want to?

 

He’s not sure exactly, but just the thought of wading in, of taking that leap, immersing himself again…it makes him sick to his stomach.

 

The last two years have been a montage of blood and death, a constant loop before his eyes, never changing, always the same.

 

It never bothered him before, so why is it such a problem now?

 

It shouldn’t be.

 

Yet it is.

 

His brain is misfiring, not working at full capacity; his concentration is shot, and he has no desire to do anything. He doesn’t feel that hunger. It is entirely possible that now he is incapable, of that same mental agility. He may not be _able_ to do it anymore. The thought doesn’t frighten him as much as it should.

 

There’s a pregnant silence, and he knows the moment has come.

 

“Sherlock…” Lestrade implores him guiltily.

 

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry; but I can’t, I just can’t._

 

“We’re really stuck, and I…”

 

“No.”

 

The tension that follows is thick, and with that one syllable it’s like all the air has rushed from the room.

 

He can’t do it. He’s not ready, he might never _be_ ready.

 

“You’re going to ask me to help you. The answer is no.” He makes sure there is no room for misinterpretation.

 

He holds his breath.

 

He can feel their surprise, their overbearing (though justified) concern. He’s not himself, he’s somehow less, and he knows he’s let them down.

 

His voice is surprisingly strong after such disuse. He hasn’t really spoken much in the time he’s been here, except to put Lestrade’s mind at ease; to explain. It was important to him that Lestrade not see him as a monster, because he’s not, not really; not completely.

 

He hasn’t said much, because he’s found that he doesn’t really have all that much to say.

 

“Okay,” Lestrade murmurs, and there’s sadness to his voice; “That’s alright.”

 

They go back to their bickering, and it may _be_ alright; for now. But how long until it’s not? Because it won’t be, not forever, and eventually they’ll start asking. They will keep coming back. Even if it turns out that he's not that person anymore, they will always have that memory of what he _was_ , remembering him in his element, what he could do, how great an asset he was; and they will never be able to accept what he is.

 

He still doesn’t feel warm enough, despite the fire. The thin pyjamas are loose on his frame, but he recognises the fabric; they smell like home.

 

His thought pattern is different now, he wanes poetic, and he’s not sure why. He's not bored, but he's not content. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

 

He flexes his toes against the leather, feeling the give.

 

He hadn’t known Lestrade would keep these clothes, but he thinks he understands. He would have taken something of John’s with him, if he could.  It's nice to have something that belongs to him. He doesn't scoff at the irrationality of the action, he actually appreciates the sentiment. It's a small thing, but he’s glad to have them; it’s good to know that you were remembered. Comforting.

 

He hears Lestrade’s footsteps a while later, he doesn’t keep track of the time, time is a construct; it's irrelevant. And with the click of a door he knows that the man has left the flat. He doesn’t bother to speculate on motive.

 

He traces his eyes over the cracks in the cushions, the different shades of brown, caressing them with a single finger, relishing in the texture and feel. It fascinates him, and the tactile sensation engages and distracts the parietal lobe of his brain, encompassing him; quieting his mind.

 

His gaze moves to the last three fingers on his hand, to the tape that binds them, the contrast keeps catching in his periphery and drawing his attention; incongruously white. It feels coarse and tacky, restraining his fingers; broken and cracked. He can feel the hairline fractures in the bone.

 

He drops the hand abruptly, letting it flop to his side, tucking it away hastily, hidden between his thighs.

 

He knows he probably shouldn’t be resting with his all weight upon his right side, the fault lines in his ribcage are straining. He finds he doesn’t mind. The pain is helpful, constantly there giving his mind something else to focus on; a way out. And if he concentrates hard enough, if there are enough tiny little distractions, then there is no opportunity for his mind to wander; to dwell.

 

Donovan clears her throat roughly, snapping him out of his fugue. He wonders what she wants from him.

 

“Would you like…do you want tea?” She asks and her tone is warily hopeful, which he finds odd for such a mundane question.

 

But he finds that he actually does want tea; tea would be wonderful. He nods.

 

“Please.”

 

She falters in collecting the used mugs, like she wasn’t expecting an answer, he's been mute for so long. She is unused to hearing the word from his lips.

 

Her kindness is surprising, and he’s grateful for it. He will not forget.

 

He turns stiffly to accept the proffered mug. He takes a glance around the flat and wonders how long he’s been staring at the back of the sofa.

 

He watches the steam curling up from the surface of his tea, as he wordlessly shifts to make room for her until he’s properly upright. His stitches scream, but he doesn’t. The steam is something small, and _that_ he can focus on, but he senses that the conversation they’re about to have won’t be, it will be something big. He's not going to be able to hide forever.

 

It’s a peace offering, an exchange, and she hesitates only briefly before the truce is sealed. They sit side by side, staring at the tea in their laps. It’s slightly awkward, and he knows she doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t mind; he wouldn’t know what to say to him either.

 

People are already behaving differently around him, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. Preferably he would forego any interaction at all, at least for the immediate future, until he better can understand what has happened to his mind.

 

He makes the decision not to lie to her, she already knows most of it anyway, and no doubt Lestrade will have filled her in on the rest. He owes her some honesty.

 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, not looking at her, “For the other night. You probably saved my life.”

 

He’s not exaggerating; she had been remarkably competent in her medical abilities, far surpassing those of Lestrade. With an infection that bad, any number of things could go wrong, septic shock being a likely candidate. It is lucky she was there.

 

“That’s alright, what are friends for?” Her smile is painfully forced, and it makes him want to laugh, because she clearly regrets the words the moment they leave her tongue.

 

He quirks an eyebrow at her in amusement, feeling more like himself than he has in years.

 

Maybe he can get there, in time; maybe he can get back to that place. He’d like that, he thinks, he’d like to go back to being Sherlock Holmes. Maybe tomorrow, the day after that, it won’t be so hard, and he _will_ have a look at the file, perhaps he’ll even solve the case.

 

“Okay, fine,” She huffs, “Maybe not that far, we’ll probably never be _friends_ but…you’re welcome.”

 

He sips at his tea, and nearly groans. No one quite does tea like the English, and he’s suddenly aware of how much he’s missed it.

 

_Small pleasures for small minds._

 

He grimaces, and sets the cup down.

 

“You know,” she idly traces a finger around the rim of her cup, “I wanted to apologise for…doubting you and everything that I did afterwards. It-”

 

“Was entirely justified,” he finishes surely.

 

She shakes her head, curls bouncing hypnotically.

 

“No it wasn’t. Not even close. Look, I messed up and if I could take it back, I would. When you jumped…it was horrible. I just…I want to say that I’m sorry; I know you’re not a fraud.”

 

He frowns, perplexed by the bitterness in her voice. Was she really blaming herself for this? The though makes him extremely uncomfortable for some reason, and he shifts in his seat.

 

_How many more people must he hurt?_

 

“You had doubts Donovan; no one can blame you for that. I know how it looked, the evidence was very incriminating.” His tone is clipped, and he feels significantly tenser than he was a minute ago.

 

His back is itching.

 

She looks frustrated as he continues to cut her off.

 

“I should have known though! I should have realised…”

 

She’s being utterly ridiculous, and he has to put a stop to it, she’s not supposed to be hurt over this, her pain has no function for him, she wasn’t part of the necessary deception.

 

“Really!? _That_ is what you believe? That you’re somehow _responsible_ for all of this?!”

 

He’s angry, and though his anger is not directed at her, it certainly comes out that way. If anyone is to blame here, it’s him; he was the gasoline, and Jim was the spark, everyone else was just an innocent bystander. It was his fault they’d become ensnared in Moriarty’s obsession with him.

 

He deliberately relaxes his posture, body language is important.

 

“ _Think_ about it; he _used_ you, used you against me. You were manipulated into thinking exactly what he wanted you to think. He was a criminal mastermind, you didn’t stand a chance.” He shakes his head bitterly, looking her directly in the eye, urging her to understand.

 

She’s staring at him like he’s mad, but he keeps going, maintaining eye contact, pressed on by his need for her to believe him.

 

“You didn’t accept what I told you at face value, any idiot could do that, that’s why he _chose_ you, because you’re clever, you evaluate the evidence and draw your own conclusions. He planted that seed of doubt, the fact that you didn’t like me was just an added bonus, no one does, and it made it that much easier to believe.

 

“If we were friends you might have thought twice about it, but we weren’t, and he knew that, was counting on that. That’s what made his plan so clever, he didn’t actually need to _do_ much; he just had to build on what was already there.

 

“But in the end it wouldn’t have made any difference if you liked me or not, if it wasn’t you then it would have been somebody else, he had plenty of morons to choose from. Besides, by then you had ample reason to doubt my integrity, you couldn't ignore that, even if you wanted to.

 

“Yes you were wrong, and yes it backfired spectacularly, but you were being _led_. You were acting off bad information; a lie, it was the only possibility that made sense, and you’d have been a fool not to act on it. That wasn’t stupidity, it was thorough police work; don’t you see?”

 

He pauses for breath, eyes boring into her, completely focussed; angry at Moriarty, at the world, at himself.

 

“We were all just pawns in his game, and he outplayed us all, you, me, Mycroft; _everyone_. Being fooled by James Moriarty isn’t anything to be ashamed of, and I won’t have _anyone_ being held accountable for the actions of that madman.”

 

He says his piece with such intensity and conviction that by the time he’s finished he’s shaking with it.

 

“Sherlock…” Her eyes are wide but he still sees guilt there, and he knows the words she needs to hear; a solace only he can provide.

 

“Listen to me Sally; what you did was the logical course of action. Believe me when I say that it _wasn’t your fault_.”

 

He says it gently, doing his best to keep his face open.

 

Her lip trembles and she bites down on it hard. There's recognition there; understanding at long last, but he needs to hear her say it.

 

“Yes?” He pushes.

 

“Yeah,” she says nodding thickly, “Thank you.”

 

All the energy drains out of him and he goes limp; wincing and gasping at the ceiling. He’s overexerted himself, his heart is racing; he doesn’t have the stamina for this. He wraps his arms around his middle, as if that could somehow hold him together. 

 

_When will it end?_

 

~

 

He talks until he collapses, and his words are loaded. She flounders; lost for a moment, stunned by the revelations she didn’t know she needed to hear.

 

She pushes down the sudden urge to hug the man, to sob like a baby. She feels so much lighter without the guilt of having killed Sherlock Holmes on her conscience, of having backed him into a corner. She’d thought she’d stolen his will to live, pushing him to suicide, to throw his life away; something she could never hope to undo.

 

All this time she’d been struggling with all this guilt she didn’t know how to deal with, and now he’s lifted that weight from her, in the space of ten minutes.

 

He didn’t die, he doesn’t hate her, and none of it was _her fault_.

 

All she can manage is a dumb-struck thank you.

 

But the tirade has clearly taken a toll on him, to the point where he’s struggling to breathe through the pain in his chest. He’d been so convincing in his animation, that she’d almost forgotten just how badly injured he really was.

 

She painstakingly drags the man to bed, inching down the hall, taking both their weight, so that by the time they get there _she’s_ panting as well. Sally is almost glad for the fact he’s so damn skinny or she’d never have been able to carry him.

 

She wishes she could do more, it’s awful having to see him in this much pain, but he outright refused to take anything stronger than ibuprofen, and with his history, that was probably wise.

 

She shuffles, shell shocked, to the couch where she crumples, swallows her pride, and has a good long cry. She passes out well before Lestrade gets home.

 

~

 

He knew he was forgetting something when he invited John back to the flat with him.

 

They’d gone out for a night down at their local, as they did most weekends, and Lestrade had a few drinks under his belt. It was enough to make him fuzzy, but he was still a long way from drunk. Inexcusable really.

 

Neither of them had brought up Sherlock, and Greg tried to relax, to put everything out of his mind for one evening.

 

It’s not until he’s slotting the key into the lock that he remembers that the flat is not exactly empty.

 

He’d told Sherlock where he was going, and more importantly with whom, but Sherlock wasn’t really in a talking mood, and Sherlock had been deliberately avoiding the topic of John Watson. He’d dodged all of Greg’s not-so-subtle attempts to talk about it. Whenever Greg said his name Sherlock got this pinched expression on his face and clammed up completely.

 

It had been nice actually, having him around, even if he doesn’t say much. Having someone to share a meal with every night, sitting together watching the football on the telly. Sherlock didn’t even comment when Arsenal inevitably lost, he just listened quietly to Greg’s commentary as he swore at the screen.

 

There was nothing missing in their silences, both totally comfortable living beside one another. It seemed like they could both use the company.

 

Greg hasn’t had a flatmate since his days as a beat cop; he’s been living alone since his split with the missus. He can see the appeal now; with the right person, shared accommodation could be very reaffirming.

 

He hadn’t realised how lonely he’d been without it.

 

But as he swings the door open, he holds his breath, praying to god that Sherlock hadn’t fallen asleep on the sofa in plain view. For once, it seemed that god was on his side, because when they stepped into the room; Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He hates that he has to hide him like some dirty secret, it's not fair.

 

They chat for a while companionably over a glass of scotch, and Greg wonders what it is that finally gives it away when John levels him with a no-nonsense stare.

 

“He’s here, isn’t he?”

 

It’s not really a question, John already knows that he is, maybe he’d known all along. He’d probably developed a sixth sense for it, having lived with the man for so long; a sort of Sherlock-proximity radar.

 

Greg doesn’t bother to deny it, but he cringes internally.

 

“Can I see him?” John asks. The question is innocent enough, but it still makes Greg’s gut clench.

 

But John doesn’t look at all angry, with him or with Sherlock; just anxious, and tired.

 

He knows John must be worried about him after a whole week of radio silence. Sherlock had come back from the dead and then immediately dropped off the map. Still…Greg can’t help but be apprehensive about the whole thing.

 

Last time they saw each other, John’s anger had eclipsed all else, and even with the hood that Sherlock had no doubt been wearing, as a doctor, he should have noticed that there was something wrong. He shouldn’t really blame him for that, but he can't help but hold it against him. There’s always the risk that John will snap again; hurt him before he even knows what he’s doing. In the safety of his mind, he can admit that he doesn’t really trust John with Sherlock right now.

 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he tells John cautiously; “He’s not really himself right now.”

 

John’s face crumples, and he looks away.

 

“Please Greg, I need to see him.”

 

Against his better judgement, he can’t deny John this. God help him.

 

“Two minutes,” he gives him sternly, “and no more.”

 

“Yeah, alright.” John licks his lips nervously, “Two minutes, I can do that.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than Greg.

 

Sherlock looks so small in the large bed; he’s burrowed himself beneath the thick blankets, with one hand curled childishly in a fist, knuckles resting against his mouth.

 

He can feel John’s eyes sweeping over the man, taking him in. He releases a deep breath, and for the first time tonight, he looks unsteady. Greg can see now how desperately he needed this.

 

“Is he alright?” John whispers, turning to him.

 

“He’s doing okay, he’s getting there.” Lestrade tells him gently. He sympathises with John’s confliction, and he knows it must be hard; being on the outside, being shut out.

 

Ironically, Sherlock’s face begins to twist, and he whines shrilly.

 

_Shit. Not this again, not now._

 

He watches as Sherlock curls in on himself, cowering, hand reaching up to shelter his head, petting at his shorn curls. Why won’t the world just cut the poor man a break?

 

“John get out, step back into the hall,” he sweeps out a hand, ushering John back, behind him.

 

This is bad enough without John gawking at him.

 

Sherlock doesn’t need an audience for this, and Greg knows that it could get violent. His night terrors can be wildly unpredictable; he needs familiarity and safety to get him through it. Greg is finally getting the hang of this, and John would just throw a spanner in the works; he’s an emotional curve ball that Sherlock isn’t ready to address.

 

He and Sally have only just managed to completely gain his trust, and he doesn’t want to lose that, they can’t afford to go backwards. Bringing another person into the fold would be too much right now, especially without Sherlock’s express permission.

 

“Why?” The doctor still lingers. Greg knows that John doesn’t want to leave; he cares for Sherlock's welfare, and he wants to be part of this, but he hasn’t earned that right yet.

 

“Because…”

 

As if on cue, Sherlock sobs loudly, legs becoming tangled in the sheets, shivering from a cold that isn’t real.

 

“Now John!”

 

He hears the man stumble backwards and out of the room.

 

He’s kneeling cautiously on the side of the bed, close enough that Sherlock can see him, but leaving enough room to jump backwards in case Sherlock suddenly decides to try and choke him. They’d learnt this the hard way, and he is overly aware of the fact that Sherlock Holmes could kill him easily with his bare hands in a split second, without even intending to.

 

But when Sherlock comes around there’s no fighting, he’s just bawling, loudly and without restraint; he couldn’t contain it if he tried. It’s heartbreaking. He waits for Sherlock to compose himself; right now the man is so worked up that the smallest thing could set him off again.

 

His cries die down and he hiccups, finally noticing Greg beside him, patiently stroking a hand along his side.

 

“Tell me it wasn’t real,” He begs, staring up at Greg, eyes wide and brimming.

 

“It was a dream Sherlock, you were just having a nightmare,” he soothes, gently massaging his shoulder, thumb rubbing small circles into his collarbone.

 

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, nodding emphatically, but when he speaks his words are mournful, choked and raw.

 

“It wasn’t though, was it?” He looks up at Greg leaning over him, filled with regret; “It wasn't just a dream, it wasn't _just_ anything. Because it happened.” His voice breaks.

 

Greg swallows, he knows it’s true, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

 

“But it’s not happening now. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

 

Sherlock whimpers.

 

“Oh Greg…”

 

Sherlock has remembered his name, and it’s awful to hear it for the first time in this context. He’s helpless; miserable.

 

“You think you can get back to sleep?” Greg asks hopefully.

 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock looks lost, as he tries to make himself comfortable. Greg thinks he sees a flicker of something, and he’s reaching for the bucket before his conscious mind can catch up.

 

“You gonna be sick?”

 

Usually it happens right away, but Greg’s still wary, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

“No, I…”

 

He takes a deep breath, deliberately trying to relax his muscles, to sink into the mattress. He frowns, and he cocks his head, as though deliberating something.

 

“Maybe,” he amends.

 

He’s listening to see if he’s going to be sick. Greg doesn’t know how that’s supposed to work, but his hands move fast as Sherlock lunges forward.

 

He always throws up after the bad ones, this one was quieter, but it still hit him with the same force. Greg struggles to manoeuvre his arms around the bucket in his lap; to get a grip on them both before Sherlock’s weight chokes himself on the rim.

 

That was a particularly bad one he observes, as Sherlock spits and spits, vomit dribbling down his chin; trying to get that horrible taste out of his mouth. Greg wipes his mouth with a damp cloth.

 

“Let’s get you on your side,” He suggests, and it takes a bit of effort before he's resting comfortably.

 

“In case I choke on my own vomit?” Sherlock slurs drily.

 

“No, I think you’re done for now,” he pauses, “I was thinking more about your back.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“I know,” he says fondly, smiling at his friends insistence; they both know he’s not, but that doesn’t mean he can’t let him pretend. They settle him on his side anyway.

 

“Go to sleep,” he urges, trying to keep the tightness from his voice, becoming overly aware of John’s presence in the hall.

 

Sherlock snuffles his face into the pillow, searching for solace in the soft warmth, and Greg’s heart clenches protectively at his vulnerability.

 

John has seen it all from the doorway, and this pisses Greg off for some reason. He’s lingering just out of Sherlock’s sight to give them ‘privacy’, but he’s still _there_ when Greg had told him to go, and it feels like an intrusion.

 

“I told you this was a bad idea,” he snaps, failing to keep the irritation from his voice, “He isn’t ready.”

 

John unconsciously holds himself higher at the rebuke. His brow furrows, drawing his eyebrows in in confusion.

 

“Not ready for what?”

 

They’re still whispering, Greg in the doorway, John directly in front of him, with an eye line into the room. He’s watching Sherlock surreptitiously over Greg’s shoulder, straining to get a look at him. This only pisses Greg off more.

 

“To see you, I asked him, and he said didn’t want to.” Not in so many words anyway.

 

That’s got to hurt, but John takes it pretty well, he’s probably still in shock at having seen the reality of the situation, but he’s more composed that Greg is.

 

“I…I’m glad you’re taking care of him, thanks for…for letting me see him.”

 

“Jhn,” Sherlock mumbles, and they both spin around; frozen in place, “ _Ya’arburnee_ **.”**

 

He’s turned a palm up into the air, and his fingers are twitching, stretching out for something in tiny shaking motions. John stares at the hand with wide eyes; transfixed, like Sherlock is beckoning to him in his sleep, and he might well be.

 

He can see exactly where this is going.

 

“John don’t.”

 

“Will he wake up?” John asks without tearing his eyes away.

 

“I don’t know; he might. John he only just got back to sleep.”

 

“He's asking for me,” John protests, and his eyes are beseeching. Greg thinks that maybe it’s not that Sherlock needs John, but that John needs to go to him, he can almost physically feel the guilt radiating off the man.

 

“Not yet. He’ll want to be lucid.” He can feel himself losing the argument; John’s not listening, but he can’t very well manhandle him out of the room without disturbing Sherlock, so he’s stuck.

 

John creeps forward; he can’t help himself.

 

He stands, almost at arms length, and brushes his fingertips ever so slightly against Sherlock’s own with a shaking hand, it’s so tender. They stay like that, lingering, the pads of their fingers the only point of contact. Greg has half a mind to pull him back, but it feels wrong to get between them, he can’t disrupt this moment, he’d even go so far as to say that it’s beautiful.

 

He can only imagine the damage it would cause if Sherlock were to wake now and find him here, when he is exposed in this way, without a shred of armour to hide him. But John needs this.

 

He slowly slides his thumb across Sherlock’s outstretched palm, and the hand curls delicately around him like a flower, holding on, grasping like a baby. Sherlock’s long pianist’s fingers cradle John’s thumb as if it were something precious.

 

Sherlock sighs deeply in content, and Greg’s eyes are burning with the sincerity of it.

 

He gives them another five seconds before the risk outweighs the restraint in his mind, and he pulls John away. It feels cruel to separate them like this, but he does it with only Sherlock’s well-being at heart, and he knows John understands that.

 

John can’t look at him, wiping furiously at the moisture on his face. Greg pats him kindly on the back, and then in one fluid motion; he turns, walks straight through the door and out of the flat, marching away with all the poise and resignation of a wounded soldier.

 

When he hears Sherlock whimper softly, he knows he is the worst friend alive.

 

He goes to him, as he always will, slipping into the bed beside him, spooning around him, cocooning the younger man with his body heat.

 

“I won’t ever let them harm you.”

 

He wraps an arm around his waist and lies awake, listening to the man breathe, taking his impossible, miraculous breaths.

 

Weeks later, at Baker Street, it will be John who slides in next to him, who holds him, crying in his sleep. It will be John who heals his scars, and wakes him from his nightmares; lovingly hunkering down together; to wait out the storm.

 

It is where they were always supposed to be.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If Sherlock seems a little out of character in parts, that was at least partially intentional, he's been traumatised, and even he can't shrug that sort of thing off, so I tried to add a childish element to his thought processes. I even went as far as to give a slight rhyme to some of the sentences when he's observing from the couch, not sure if I succeeded; let me know if you noticed.
> 
> Ya’arburnee is an Arabic word, that doesn't have an exact translation. Literally, it means 'may you bury me,' but it's more of a sentiment; a declaration that you wish to die before the one you love, because you cannot bear to live without them.
> 
> That is what Sherlock is saying to John in his sleep.


End file.
